


Colder Weather

by swinchests



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Christmas, Gen, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swinchests/pseuds/swinchests
Summary: Sam and Dean meet up for Christmas. It does not go according to anyone's plan.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Colder Weather

**Author's Note:**

> I found an old draft written in a notebook that made up the beginning of this. I was hoping to get it done before Christmas, but then again I'm lucky I got it done at all!

Past Halloween, he’d never liked being in the north. Maybe it was because his jackets were always too thin, or full of holes, or vaguely smelled like moldy thrift store and Jim Beam. When Sam was in charge of finding leads, he used to scour midwestern drug stores for unlikely copies of the Fort Lauderdale _ Waterfront Times,  _ the _ Palm Beach Post — _ hell, even the _ Memphis Daily  _ had a better weather forecast. He’d feed his father stories about Chupacabras, old Louisiana voodoo… one January, he even went on a tangent about Georgia's fucking  _ Wampus Cat.  _ It was all to no avail. Monsters seemed to thrive more on snowy mountainsides than on white sand beaches.

So it was kind of surprising, even to himself, that he was on his way to fucking Iowa right now. 

He’d bought the ticket on short notice, and at his brother’s behest. It had been three months since his fight with Dad, and in some ways, that felt like a lifetime. It wasn’t as if Sam hadn’t tried to keep in touch — after all, he was just going to school, not to war. He’d called before, and hadn’t gotten a response. Sometimes Dean let the phone ring, and sometimes it went right to the mailbox. Then three days before Christmas, out of nowhere, he called back _. “Heya, Sammy. Just thought I’d see how your Christmas shopping is going. You got some time to meet up?”  _

Maybe it was stupid, but when Dean finally forgave him, Sam sort of expected him to come running. Not to hunker down in the goddamned American Plains and demand that he buy a Greyhound ticket.

He’d kind of been hoping to spend Christmas somewhere warm, for once. Palo Alto wasn't a tropical paradise either; at least here, though, the temperature stayed mild enough that he was comfortable in jeans and a hoodie.  They had agreed not to do Christmas gifts many years ago, which was perfectly fine with him. When he learned that Santa wasn't real, presents ceased to matter. Besides, he'd eventually have to leave it behind, anyway. More than trinkets wrapped in newspapers, he cared more that he wasn’t alone in a motel room on a holiday. Maybe that’s why Dean called, and why Sam was so relieved. Alone in a dorm room isn’t all that much better. 

Since he had expected to spend the holiday break in California, he hadn’t packed his heavy coat when he moved into his dorm. Now, with his hands shoved deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt, breath clouding in front of his nose, he realized that he hadn’t really thought this through.

The Impala stuck out like a sore thumb at the bus station in Clear Lake, Iowa. There was a buffer of four spaces around it, despite the fullness of the lot, like a spotlight. It was rattling, louder than even the bus itself, Motorhead echoing from inside. Dean stuck out like a sore thumb, too; leaned against the hood in a jacket that was too big in the shoulders, and always would be, hair dark with winter. He grinned at Sam as he stepped down off the bus, toothy, and waved.

Sam grinned back with relief. A part of him had expected not to find Dean here at all; to ride all the way to bumfuck nowhere just to turn around and go back. It’d be Dean’s brand of restitution, for sure, and Sam might have deserved it. Even if he didn’t… he was pretty sure Dean thought he deserved it.

So he breathed, “hey, Dean,” like a breath of fresh air as he approached, the cold making him wheeze.

His brother seemed to be in relatively the same state that Sam had left him in. He was all in one piece, at least — no noticeable bruises, no new scarring, all limbs functional. He was so clean that Sam almost felt silly for thinking any different. He refused to use the word  _ worry  _ in his contemplations about his brother, yet…  He had lost sleep for two nights over this exact moment, but Dean’s shoulders were loose and easy. His grin cocked to one side, and Sam realized he was getting the same once-over. “Jesus. You hit another growth spurt or somethin’, Sammy?” In typical fashion, Dean picked up where he left off, like he’d just flipped the page of a book. Not like he hadn’t seen Sam in several months, or like they had been screaming when he left. “I thought you’d be tanner by now, college boy.” 

He had a way of saying it that made Sam feel like he was fourteen. “I thought you’d be taller by now.” 

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh-ho, would you look at that,” he jeered, but didn’t elaborate.  They got in the car, and she groaned, like she wasn't used to Sam's weight anymore. Dean patted the dash. “She doesn’t like the cold. Old girl started rattling as soon as we got north of St. Louis. Big baby.” 

Sam sunk into the leather, thinking that he knew how she felt.

• • •

The place where Dean was staying belonged to one of Dad’s non-friends; somebody who wouldn’t work with John if his life depended on it, but also didn’t want to see Dean freeze to death, either. By the looks of the place, Elkins hadn’t been here in years, so it couldn’t have been that much of a sacrifice. Sam realized that as they pulled up to the cabin. It gave the sense that it was receding quietly back into the wilderness from whence it came. The shudders were peeling off the walls, flakes of their green paint scattered in the dirt below. Blue moss was crawling up the siding. A gutter hung loose and low, and creaked as the wind shook it. The porch was rotting and covered in ugly, icy gray slush. It looked… a lot like plenty of other places they’d stayed, growing up.

“Home sweet home,” Dean chirped, pulling the key from the ignition. Sam’s chest ached for his red-accented dorm. He shivered as he climbed out, whistling wind assaulting his cheeks and his nose. As expected, the inside of the cabin was more of the same. The smell of log and must was sour, the air inside stagnant, evidence that it had gone untouched for some time. The basics were there — a sofa, a table, and a fireplace — but no more. A thick layer of dirt and dust covered the wood floor. Sam squinted at it, searching for mouse-prints in the grime. At first glance, it seemed likely that they weren’t alone.

"I laid down the salt lines, so don’t screw ‘em up when you come in. And you're sleeping on the couch," announced Dean, dropping his duffel bag down with a thud. A puff of dust swished out from under it. He went straight for the kitchenette, and pulled a Bud Light from the refrigerator, which was not running. "It ain’t as fancy as your place, but it does have bottle service.” 

“How’d you get Elkins to lend you the place?”

Dean’s face was even. The corners of his lips twitched inward around the lip of his can. “What are you talking about?”

“He must’ve thought you were trying to throw some kind of rager.” Sam smiled wide, cheeky. “So what did you tell him?”

He was grinning at first, but the longer Dean was quiet, the lower it fell. His brother was looking at him kind of queerly, twisting. He let out a snort. “Nothing. Elkins had some business he needed help with, and I had some free time on my hands.”

Quickly, the smile faded, computing slowly in his head. “…Elkins hasn’t talked to Dad in years. Let alone worked with him.”

“He didn’t have to talk to Dad, he talked to me.”

Sam had to blink a few times to work his way through that one. “You’re on a job.” No answer. “By yourself?”

“What? It never bugged you when Dad was doing it.”

“That’s different. It’s _ Dad.” _

“Look, Elkins has had his eye on this thing for months, okay? Every full moon, they find campers on the side of the trail with their hearts  _ bitten  _ out. Doesn’t get more clear-cut than that. He’d have gone after it himself, but he busted his leg a couple weeks ago, and he’s laid up.  The full moon is tomorrow. He figured that he goes after the thing in the winter, we got more of a chance of finding it before it finds something to eat.”  He paused, as if he was waiting for Sam’s blessing, but Sam didn’t know where to even start. “I can handle one lousy  _ mutt _ , Sam.”

And Dean was right. He could. Sam knew Dean was a capable hunter, just as capable as Dad. And he was right — he worried about Dad, but never so much that he was scandalized by the idea of their father working alone.  A werewolf was just a weekend business trip for Dad. He’d leave on Friday, and be back to watch the Simpsons on Sunday night. But it was… it was different with Dean. He couldn't explain why. It didn't matter anyway, because the decision had already been made. No argument was going to be worth it; Dean had his Dad-mask on, and Sam's skin itched.

It was quiet for a moment longer, the air between them still and cold and heavy. Dean scratched his head and turned his back, rifling again through the refrigerator as if there was anything worthwhile inside. “So I was thinkin’ we could cut down one of them pine trees and drag it in here, if you want. We gotta go cut some firewood, anyway. Of course, I don’t know what you’re gonna decorate it with. I’m fresh outta tinsel.” 

• • • 

“How’s school?” 

It was an innocent question, but something about it still made Sam shift in his seat. They had both washed up, changed shirts and kicked boots off to make themselves at home. Dean had a bottle of Jack that was meant to keep them warm. The conversation eased into their usual back-and-forth, and it sat on Sam’s shoulders like a well-worn coat.  It wasn’t at all malicious, the way Dean had inquired. In fact, it sounded profoundly reminiscent of a million conversations they’d had, long before. Like round-faced Sammy had just come back from his first day of fourth grade. 

And Sam would know — in the fourth grade, he’d been to five different schools. “ It’s good. It’s a huge campus. I still don’t know my way around the whole thing. And it’s pretty hard work - a lot harder than high school. I didn’t really expect that. But I like it.” 

“Good.” Dean dug more beers out of the fridge; Sam was starting to suspect that they were the only thing in the fridge. “You, uh… you pass your tests?” 

A laugh. “Yeah.” 

“Aced ‘em?” 

“Well, we don’t have the scores back yet. They’re supposed to be posted online by Christmas Eve… so I won’t see them until I get back… but yeah, I think so.” 

Dean gave that half-cocked, that’s-my-boy smile that made Sam’s chest a little tighter. “Make some friends?” 

“My roommate is cool.” 

He nodded, as if this were a deeper revelation that needed to be pondered behind his bottle. Sam didn’t know what to make of it. “Any of those friends happen to be… girls?” 

Sam rolled his eyes, slouching. “Yeah, Dean.”  The smile grew wicked. That’s my boy.

“Y’got any  _ special friends,  _ Sammy?” 

“No.” 

And to be frank, a part of him was pretty sure he never would. When was Sam supposed to have that kind of time? If he didn’t maintain his GPA, he’d have no more scholarship. And then what would he do? It’s not like he had a trust fund he could tap into, or any small sum set aside by a parent. He used to, once, but he’s pretty sure that shit is gone, by now. Dean laughed, vindicated now that Sam had been sufficiently annoyed. “Come on, Sam, it’s like I didn’t teach you anything! I’m sure at least one of those California girls’ve been batting their eyes at you. They’re not exactly the church choir type, out there.” 

Sam shook his head, playing off the twist in his gut with a scoff. “No one.” He swore that when Dean leaned back, tilting the bottle down his throat, it looked like a little bit of victory.

It didn’t snow in Iowa so much as the rain just lingered. There was no fluffy white, just gray and very cold mud, clouds hanging menacingly overhead. The first day saw very little sunshine.  They played cards and they played cribbage. There was really nothing else to do. The fire kept the air warm, but Sam still shivered when the humidity set in his bones. California had an ocean breeze, but Iowa’s fog meant the soggy feeling sat on top of everything.  Dean lent him a spare jacket from the bottom of his duffel bag, and when he stuck his arms in, there it was — the thrift stores and the Jim Beam. 

This was the part that he had missed. If they tried, they could pretend like nothing had changed.

Around dusk, Dean went outside with a cigarette pinched between his lips. Sam’s brow lifted, but he followed along, anyway. “Since when do you smoke?” 

Dean glanced up from where he was cupping a lighter between his hands, sheltering it from the whipping wind. White smoke puffed up from his lips. “I started in high school.” 

Sam’s forehead wrinkled. Dean had dropped out of high school years ago. Was it really possible that it had gone over his head that long? “You hid it from Dad?” 

“What, you gonna snitch on me, little brother?” He sucked in a long drag for emphasis, blowing it out slowly like a dare. The chuckle in his voice billowed out around the smoke. “Nah, Dad knew. I was hiding it from you, back then. Didn’t want you to start.” 

“Why are you telling me now, then?” 

“Well, you’re all grown up, aren’t you?”  There was a little bit of a jeer in his tone, another one of those jabs that you’d miss if you weren’t looking close enough. If you weren’t Sam, who knows the cadence of every note in Dean’s voice. It put a pit in his belly that he didn’t want to admit to. “Don’t gotta worry about you anymore.”

Sam pinched his lips together, teeth digging into his cheek. He expected this, after all, but the back-and-forth was starting to make him a little seasick. It was hard to know what to make of Dean, now. He had only been apart from his brother a few months, and in some moments, it was like nothing had changed.  Other times… maybe it was the shadow of the woods around them, but he was a little bit hard to recognize. Spiteful and hard-jawed, with that big leather jacket pulling his shoulders down flat. Maybe Dean didn’t know what to make of him anymore, either. Sam didn’t think he could blame him for that. 

“So this is a special occasion?” 

Dean breathed in and held it for a moment. “Course it is, Sammy. It’s Christmas Eve.” 

Outside the sanctity of the porch, the crickets were starting to wail. The forest seemed more alive in the dark, self-aware without the blinding sun. There were rustles in the far brush that he knew were probably pheasants, but still made his collar prickle. Old habits never really die.  The smell of tobacco was wrapping around the porch, mixing with the sage they’d burned when they arrived last night, and he scoffed to himself. Some people have Christmases that smell like vanilla and gingerbread. His were smoke and self-pity. 

“So when you said that it’d be easier to hunt down the wolf in December. Do you think it’ll head to town? It’s twenty miles, but if it’s hungry...”

“I’m sure it’ll go after whatever it can find.” He snuffed out his cigarette, watching the red embers fade as it fell into the dead grass. He reached to fumble around with the pocket of his coat; from inside, Sam saw a flash of silver. “Well, we’re all outta firewood. Guess I gotta go get some more.” 

It felt like the cold air at the end of a hot shower. Sam looked up at the dark sky and the full moon, and the knife in Dean’s fist, and all the half-answers he’d gotten started to make sense. His chest sunk. “That’s your plan? You’re gonna use yourself as bait?”

“Hey, in my defense… I’ve had plenty of worse ideas. You remember that girl from that pancake joint in Charlevoix?” 

Flummoxed, he swallowed, throat becoming dry. “That’s not funny. You can’t just walk out into the woods and wait to become dog chow.”

“Well, Sam, I’m not sure what say you think you got in this. Last I checked, this was a solo operation.” There it was again, the vindictive twist in his voice. The change was so rapid that it made Sam’s head spin. “If you wanna help out, be my guest. If not, then you stay here and keep an eye out. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

Suddenly, there was gasoline in his belly. Dean held that deep echo of Dad all around him like he always did, in his face and the set of his shoulders under that coat that didn’t fucking fit. The leather jacket covered him like an extra skin, like a costume, and it  _ pissed Sam the fuck off _ . Who did Dean think he was fooling, hiding under that thing? What had Dean asked him to come all the way out here for — to bury him?

He couldn’t argue anymore. His heart was clogging his throat. “Fine.” 

“Fine.” And as usual, Dean had the last word. Fists in his pockets, he galavanted down the porch steps, and out toward the woods.  Sam watched him, tight-jawed, and wishing suddenly for a cigarette of his own. 

• • •

Alone in the cabin, there was nothing to do but fester. It wasn’t the first time he’d been left to his own devices. In fact, he’d been left to his own devices most of the time, and usually in shithole places like this. He had never, never gotten used to it. This time, though — he absolutely refused to do anything about it. He wasn’t going to adjust the lines of salt that had been scuffled when they walked out the door. He wasn’t going to dig in Dean’s bag or rifle through the trunk to find any more silver. He wasn’t going to be a part of this hunt, goddamn it. He paced back and forth from the fridge to the table, frenetic energy too big for the room, making his legs and fingers twitch as a result.

Who was he really angry at, here? Was he mad at Dean, for marching out into the night just as a proverbial slap to the face? At Elkins, for bailing and suggesting that his brother use himself as bait?  Or at Dad, for not knowing or caring where Dean was? 

Maybe he was just pissed that he had fallen for this, for thinking that this  _ wouldn’t  _ be the same old song and dance.

He should have known all along that this would be the scheme. After all, Dean had called him so suddenly, after ignoring him for three months. He’d been so chipper about the invitation, insistent and yet perfectly innocent up until the last moment. Sam should have guessed that he’d come up with a way to try to get him back on a case. And he realized that this type of conniving had John Winchester’s name all over it. 

Dad had a lot of rules, but the golden one was  _ stick together. _ All it takes is a moment alone for the monster to bite. They never ventured out on their own; Sam was barely even allowed to walk home from school on his own.  _ You know what’s out there,  _ they’d say, Dad and then Dean in that costumeish echo. If he was left behind, it was locked inside a motel room, lined with salt and packed with fortress-like ammunition. He wasn’t supposed to answer the door, or answer the phone. He couldn’t open the door long enough to order a pizza. _ Winchesters stick together.  _ He’d said both of those things when Sam left. Actually, he’d shouted them until he was blue in the face. 

So since when was it okay for Dean to hunt alone? 

Their father had probably sent Dean out on this reconnaissance mission. He must be getting tired of doing his own research, that’s all — and Sam wasn’t going down for this shit. 

An hour passed. He drank his brother’s last Budweiser as payback.

Ninety minutes. Sam thought maybe Dean had underestimated how long it would take to track down a werewolf on his own. He poked his head out the front door to listen, and couldn’t hear anything over the thrum of the crickets. No footsteps, nothing howling in the distance. 

Two hours. Fuck. 

And as the clock ticked past that, his fingers started to twitch. Even if things had gone a little awry… Dean should be back by now. Elkins had been tracking this wolf for months, after all. They knew where it bedded, and where it would be. It was one mutt, like Dean said. All he needed to do was take it by surprise. So where was he? 

He went out to the porch again. It was late, and it was winter. The sun would not be back up for a very long time. Outside of the warm glow of their cabin, there was no light. There was no one for miles; just Dean and his knife and a monster out there in the dark. Dean wanted to lure the thing out, but he had not come back. The crickets still thrummed, and Sam’s blood rushed dangerously in his ears. 

He didn’t want any part in this, and he was pissed off at Dean. But he still wasn’t going to sit here and let his brother die. It wasn’t just because he was a Winchester. It was basic human decency, that’s all. With a resolved set to his chin, he pulled Dean’s jacket tighter around his chin. He marched off the porch and threw open the trunk of the Impala for Dean’s extra flashlight. 

It was as dark and slippery outside as it had looked from the porch. He followed a foot trail that seemed to have been long since abandoned, covered in weeds and reinforced only by Elkins’ infrequent visits. The trees dripped with fog and the ground squelched beneath him, mud and wet leaves. It seeped through the toes of his boots quicker than he’d imagined. Still, he tried not to make a lot of noise as he trudged on. 

He was going to kill his brother, if the werewolf hadn’t already.

“Dean?” he started by whispering it into the void, as if his brother was going to come galavanting around the corner any second. He hoped he would. He hoped Dean would ask him what took him so long, so that Sam could tell him how much of an asshole he is. He hoped that he’d get to roll his eyes and say I told you so, and then they’d go back inside. He hoped that he wasn’t going to find Dean’s goddamned entrails under the pine trees. Merry Christmas.

“Dean,” he tried a little louder, when it wasn’t working. 

Without the light, he’d hardly be able to see his hand in front of his face. The thick brush moved as he passed, but not enough to alert him; the rustling high in the trees was likely the bats, and the billowing bushes were probably raccoons. What he was seeking was a more obvious sign. If it was this dark, Dean would have a light, too, even if it was just his Zippo held high. His eyes narrowed, scanning through the fat tree trunks for that little spark. 

Eventually, he heard a rustle, about fifty yards ahead, that sounded more like crunching feet. “Dean!” he called again, a shouted whisper. Quickly, trying not to trip through the overgrown roots, he moved toward the noise. 

From afar, he heard the answer. “— Sammy?” 

He inhaled to respond, but the breath was stolen from him.  Something hit his shoulders from behind and he tumbled, foot tangled underneath the sturdy brush. His head hit the ground with a muddy smack. From behind him, something growled. 

• • •

“Sammy? Fuck. Shit. Sam!” 

When he woke, there was mud in his eyes. It smelled horrible, like muck and death and pungent blood, and his stomach gurgled delicately. Dean was fluttering, hands smacking his shoulders, chest, cheeks. Behind him, Sam could glimpse a mass of muddled black fur. 

He felt wet, laying in a puddle of runny black mud. Dean held his shoulders, steadying him as he sat upright. He reached up to wipe at the water dripping down the back of his neck, and realized that his fingertips came back bright red. “Easy,” said Dean. “Hey, you good?” 

Vaguely, he nodded, swallowing the blood-tang taste in his dry throat. 

“There were two,” Dean said. “They look identical. Elkins could never tell the difference.” 

Sam could see it for himself. As the night came back into focus, he could make out two skulls in the massive heap. He imagined twins, brothers living out here in the darkness. He blinked several times to try to put the shapes together. Dean kept muttering. “You hit your head pretty good there. C’mon, get up. We’ll get go to town and get that looked at.” 

The emergency room sounded like a stupid, costly idea, and he knew that Dean was only offering it out of guilt. “I’m not going to the hospital, Dean. Let go of me.” 

Dean let go, and his hands hovered between the two of them for a second, open and empty. Sam watched him fold them back up into neat little fists. “Okay,” the  _ tough guy  _ tacked onto that was implied. With his hands behind him, he pushed himself up to his feet, determined not to wobble. “You shouldn’t have been waving that flashlight around. Brought ‘em right to you like sharks, man. You know better. Now help me build a pyre so we can burn these puppies.” 

Sam blinked. “I’m not helping you.” Truly, he was startled by the ease with which Dean turned his attention back to the dead beasts. Almost even impressed. His brother had always possessed a knack for deciding how a conversation was going to turn out. More and more, he realized that the entirety of his stay here had been leading up to this moment. It had nothing to do with Dad. Dean had been the one planning this, all along. Dean was not the bait, it was Sam. And with the exception of the extra wolf mucking it up, he had walked right in, borrowed flashlight in hand.  “Do you have any idea how long you were gone?” It was his turn to mimic their father, hazy eyes ablaze. “You said you’d be back in an hour.” 

“What’s it matter to you how long I’m gone? You’ve been in your friggin’ ivory tower since summer.” 

The response shot out so fast that it sounded planned, like Dean had been waiting for months for the right opportunity to say it. “Don’t be an idiot,” he hissed, but choked on the rest of his argument. It seemed so self-explanatory, why he cared. If Dean wanted him to spell it out, he hardly intended to give the satisfaction.

“Sorry you don’t like it, Sam, but the world keeps spinning without you. Monsters don’t stop being monsters just because you don’t wanna deal with it anymore.” 

“So what? You thought if you tricked me into coming out here, I’d do the job with you?” 

Caught, Dean hesitated. It was strange to see him speechless, of all people.  If not for the darkness, Sam might have seen redness bloom around his ears. He should have expected that Sam would figure it out. He was not a child anymore; that’s the whole point. “I wasn’t trying to trick you.” His words came out slow, calculated, like he was more scared of this than he was of the werewolves that he’d just stabbed. “I thought you’d like it better if… I thought it’d be easier if it was just us. Without Dad.” 

“It wasn’t,” Sam said. 

Dean nodded at his shoes. He may have thought that he hid his wince, but if Sam didn’t know better… “I see that now.” 

It was quiet then, inherently awkward. If this was Dean’s idea of an olive branch… it’s kind of fucked up. There were two cold heaps of mutt at their feet, and blood gumming in Sam’s hair. Between the two of them, what was left? The argument didn’t matter. The score was already settled; had been before Dean even asked him to come. There was no way he was changing his mind, and there was no changing Dean’s, either. Winchesters stick together, and if he isn’t going to stick, then he’s no Winchester. What did that make him? 

“I’m sorry, Sammy.” 

He wasn’t sorry that he’d done it, that Sam knew for sure. Maybe sorry that he got hurt in the process. But that was part of the deal, always had been. There had never been a way to hunt without this, getting hurt or watching someone else get hurt. Everyone knew that. All he wanted was a Christmas where he didn't end up nearly becoming a chew toy.

And Dad thought it was more dangerous for him to be in a college dorm. 

Maybe he didn’t know Dean the way he thought he did. This vindictive version that smelled like stale smoke. Maybe Dean didn’t know him so much, either. 

“Yeah.” The blood in his hair started to itch. Gravel shook loose from his scalp as he moved, tumbling through the back of his wet shirt. The damage between them was done months ago. There was no repairing it now; the stain already set. The ill-fitting jacket he’d borrowed from Dean was soaked through now, caked in drying dirt, and the shivering that quaked in his spine made his contemptuous stance look more feeble. The adrenaline of the fall and the fight were both faded, and more than anything, he just wanted to go back inside. He wanted to wrap up what was left of this holiday, salvage the scraps, and at the end, let it die. 

He wanted to go to his dorm and tell his friends that he’s a little banged up just because his brother has a vicious dog. That he’s fine, but he’s happy to be back now. 

He sought to say more, mostly to fill the looming space, but couldn’t think of anything worthwhile. Dean seemed to be in the same predicament. The heavy air seemed to force him downward, flattening his shoulders and curling his back. Sam stuck his toe into a puddle of mud, feeling himself sink.

“I need a shower,” he coalesced. A battered white flag. Is there a purpose in surrender when the point is moot? 

His brother nodded, although not really meeting his gaze. “You’re tellin’ me.” He accepted Sam’s deflection from this conversation, which was as gracious as he could stand to be. There was a dutiful set in his chin now, and while the day was breaking around them, it wasn’t over Dean. Sam could feel himself reflecting it, a stony clench in his jaw. He nodded, pressing his tongue to his front teeth. 

They walked back in trudging silence, Christmas morning lifting over the two dead dogs. 


End file.
